New Perspectives – Guest: Welcome to my Garden – ‘Wrensong’

Welcome to my Garden
by Jean MacGregor

The birch is old and showing its age as it continues to preside over the garden, overseeing its evolution through the decades. It won’t be long before the tree buds burst open into a tiara of green leaves, branches flung out wide in a protective embrace shading over a hundred hostas.

They thrive at its feet:

Blue Angel, Spinning Wheel, Heaven Scent, and Baby Tears, this last a diminutive little thing; its tiny leaf would fit into the palm of a fairy’s hand.

                  Blue Angel hosta

Come, come in to my garden … “Wrensong”

I refer to it as my garden but it is God’s space where He weaves His tapestry into watercolour vignettes over the seasons.

I am simply taking care of this sacred space. I call the garden Wrensong, so-named for the house wrens that nest in the birdhouse each year, filling the garden with their music.

     Mom with lunch – Click for                          larger image

We’ve watched their effort of nest building, later the frenetic search for insects to feed their young. We’ve seen the fledglings jostle one another to get a first look at the world, preparing to take their bearings before they embark on that first flight with those tiny wings. They sometimes navigate successfully to a tree, sometimes crash-land into the safe haven of the garden below.

Gone are the snowdrops, only a seed pod dangling here and there, gone the crocus, the early iris and the miniature tulip, silently receded to back stage until next spring once again bids them.

The primroses are putting on a display to rival Cartier’s jewelry showcase. They border the pathways with their fabulously delightful colors of melted butter, tourmaline pink, blue topaz, amethyst, and white, the color of pearls, all gazing at the face of the sun. This merry array of flowers sits snugly clustered against the lush, emerald leaves.


The robins begin their song before daybreak, a reminder to praise the Lord as they echo their prayers to each other throughout the day and into the darkening night. They are mindful of the gardener, eagerly waiting to forage where the beds have just been worked. My reward is day-long music, their joyous melody accompanied by a choir of sparrows, chickadees and blue jays.

Spatters of bluer than blue scilla with star shaped blooms have scattered uninhibited throughout the garden, attracting honey bees to the cornflower blue drifts. Observing them as they gather nectar reminds me to be grateful for our own daily bread. Over there is the bloodroot blooming brilliant white only when the sunlight kisses it. The purple leaves are furled around each other into tight little fists before they open to reveal themselves dark green.

Now the hyacinth are beginning to bloom, resembling little sentinels showing off their wardrobe colors of pink, white and sky blue, their curled trumpet-like flowers releasing sweet perfume into the garden, captured by the humid air. Surely angels visit them to see if they can create a reverent rhapsody.

Let us walk this way since we mustn’t disturb the doves and we can listen to them cooing, soft as the air. They bask in warming rays of the sun under an old lilac tree that was originally transplanted years ago from my parents’ garden.

The daffodils have burst into bloom and the garden is alive in a symphony of yellow trumpets. In the woods, white trilliums sway in the breeze. A demure Lenten rose is nodding toward the ground. I tip the blossom up to see its petals are maroon speckled with a darker maroon, a chartreuse centre and an ivory necklace at its throat.

Behold the butterflies! Their flight is erratic as though they are on a mysterious mission known only to themselves, or perhaps they are being pursued by the garden angels who chase them for lighthearted fun. Unintentionally I have invaded a space where bumblebees dart into the bells of the purple-pink lungwort. I’m being dive-bombed by these chubby pilots. Such antics! I can’t help but laugh!

The lamb and lion days of spring are yielding to the sultry days of summer. Ever so gently the stage will be brushed anew when God topples His paint pots and laughs as the colours interlace and blend, shaping the big, bold and beautiful new creation that will debut, and prompting a new script to be written.

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